


'til kingdom come

by attonitos_gloria



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Ableism, All the Westerosi things, Angst and Fluff, Bittersweet Ending, But this is a good thing right, Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, Hand of the King Tyrion, Human Bran Stark, In this house we love Bran Stark, King Bran Stark, OOC Bran Stark, POV Tyrion Lannister, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Queen Sansa, Sexism, So Married, Trying to make sense out of show!canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-03-08 14:39:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18896668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attonitos_gloria/pseuds/attonitos_gloria
Summary: It is not a new world that they are constructing. They are just repairing the old one. Making amends. Fixing details.[Show!canon scenario where Tyrion, eventually and obviously, visits his former wife in the North.]





	1. You Left Me Living With a Lingering Soul,

**Author's Note:**

> I am embracing the irrational, non-sense, nihilistic, dumb, tragic ending of the show as canon for a moment so I can indulge in this fanfic that contains, basically: Tyrion and Bran working and talking, and Bran learning how to be human just because I adore him, and Tyrion being in love with Sansa just because I adore them.

  
  


* * *

  
  


With the exception of Bronn, never before Tyrion worked with such a lovely, dedicated group of people.

The yet to be completed Small Council is beautiful in their simplicity, Tyrion thinks, and he falls easily into the rhythms of their reunions. He enjoys Brienne’s strong, quiet presence, speaking rarely but always wisely. Ser Davos’ kindness seems to know no boundaries, a fatherly figure to an orphan Realm. Samwell occupies his post of Grand Maester despite being no Maester, despite having a wife and children; it is an interim arrangement, because it is a chair that they cannot leave unoccupied, not now, when they need to heal and rewrite History all over. Even Bronn is part of the harmony; maybe they need someone completely oblivious, someone that thinks nothing is sacred to crack a joke once in a while, just so the air won’t be so hard to breathe in that room full of regret. The Hand of the King, most of all. He knows what they think of him. He does not know if he has been forgiven. Bran told him he would be fixing his past mistakes: _here’s the pin you threw away, Lord Tyrion, this is your atonement._

Everyone is atoning. At night, Tyrion wonders if Bran knows where her body is. He thinks about Jon, lonely and cold and in the North of the world, remembers the wrecked guilt in his grey eyes. 

He used to be a gentle soul, Jon Snow, and even if it broke him, to be the one who pierced Daenerys’ heart– Tyrion does not know if any of them can be called _gentle_ , ever again. It was stripped out from them, from _all of them_ , the ability to remain soft. 

Maybe they _can’t_ be kind anymore.

They miss a Master of Whispers, but truth be told: there’s no need for one when the King is also the Three-Eyed-Raven. Maybe someday they will chose someone, just to have a name. They still miss a Master of Laws, and _this_ is the real issue in most reunions. After all, everything’s changed, and the changes keep calling for more changes. 

And Podrick– Podrick is there (because Brienne is there, and Tyrion supposes where she goes, he will follow), and nothing in the world comforts Tyrion more than Podrick’s nearness.

(He thinks someone else might. A certain redhead, royal and hard and cold as Winter itself.

But she lives in another country now.)

Sometimes, Bran attends the meetings, too. But, oh, Tyrion had his share in life of mythical royals and magical creatures; he prays to the gods he does not believe in to let Bran Stark, The Broken, King of the Six Kingdoms, please, be the last one. And still, it is some kind of momentary comfort, for he would rather drown himself in the mystery of legends, in the unknown magic bred in the core of their world, than to work for someone who is, simply, human.

The humanness of it all. He doesn’t think he could stand it, now, not yet.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Tyrion has two or three distant cousins who share Lannister blood, and he names one of them Regent of Casterly Rock. He is not ready to give it away, and he is not ready to assume and reclaim it, and the pin on his chest makes everything dangerously easy to deal with, at least the practical aspects of power; always has. All they need is someone to keep the work in the mines. He will handle the Rock later.

All of his ghosts are in the Red Keep, of course, all but one. Joanna wander through the Rock’s corridors all by herself. He thinks she must feel lonely: his father died here, in King’s Landing, Cersei and Jaime were killed almost literally by the castle itself (and oh, the irony; Tyrion can’t bear it, does not want to think about it). Joffrey is here, too, and Shae, both suffocating and breathless into eternity; one by his own hands, the other by somebody else’s, though almost no one believes the latter. The red in the walls could very well be stains from Daenerys’ bleeding heart.

(Here’s an idea:

Maybe he is the ghost. Maybe every castle he puts his feet on becomes haunted. Maybe he can’t help but kill everyone who dares to come too close, sooner or later, in one way or another. Wasn’t that what his father taught him? If you love something, they will turn against you.

 _But you never learn, do you?_ )

So one evening, late night, he is studying maps of the Red Keep and King’s Landing, listing all the towers and places and streets in the town and in the castle that need rebuilding. There’s an abundance of Targaryen names and history: Aegon’s Hill, Hill of Rhaenys, Visenya’s Hill. The Great Sept of Baelor (gods! They need to rebuild the Sept. And name a High Septon, so his marriage can be officially annulled, although no one but himself cares about the matter; certainly not his wife.) Maegor’s Holdfast. He has books pilled at his left on the table, a flagon of wine and ink at his right, a parchment in front of him as he takes notes for the Small Council’s meeting in the morrow. Bran is there, quietly staring at the flames in the hearth. Tyrion does not know how it happened (he thinks it all began in Winterfell), but it turns out they do it a lot: share each other’s company. He likes to talk, and Bran likes to listen, and when Your Grace feels like talking Tyrion is always interested.

“Do you want to change the names?” Tyrion asks.

Bran barely acknowledges his voice. His left eyebrow raises one infinitesimal inch. “Which names?”

“All of them.” His eyes cross the list; he picks one name in random. “Maegor’s Holdfast, by example, it could be Eddard’s Holdfast. Brandon’s Hill, instead of Visenya’s Hill.”

“I believe all of the Starks would hate this,” Bran says, somewhat witty. It reminds him a little of Sansa. “Why should we completely erase House Targaryen from the people’s memory?”

Tyrion thinks about it, then. His question was made in a impulse. He wasn’t thinking about History, or the deceased House Targaryen; he was just trying to make the Castle a little less haunted. “Well, Maegor was a cruel man,” he answers. His tone is controlled and measured, but it’s just the habit of speaking with monarchs; for all that Bran is a creature like no other, and for all that Tyrion knows that he is not harmless, the Hand also doesn’t think his King is _dangerous_. Only people who lack something can be dangerous, because they want to compensate for their faults and shortcomings. Bran feels inhumanly wholesome.

“I know,” Bran says, voice flat, his face gilded by the fire. “I saw it.”

“And I thought that we were…” He tries to come up with something reasonable. He could not, for the life of him, be the only one trying to leave ghosts behind. “Starting all over. For the Realm. It seems fitting to start here, in King’s Landing.”

“The changes the Realm need will be made slowly and over time. I’m not here to break the wheel, my lord Hand,” Bran says. Surgical and clean and sharp. “I’m not Daenerys Targaryen.”

Tyrion Lannister flinches. Bran does not see it, not with his two human eyes, anyway. “That you are not, Your Grace,” Tyrion answers, sipping on his wine.

“And, anyway,” Bran finally catches his eye over the books. “If you chose me only so I could _erase_ history, then what was the _point?_ ”

Tyrion presses his lips together and gives the boy King a single nod. “All right. Maegor’s Holdfast it is.”

  
  


* * *

  
  
He writes to Sansa first.

The Small Council agrees that it works for the good of both realms that the relationship between the North and the South remains amicable – not that anyone doubted they would be anything but, with Starks occupying both seats, but that is what Tyrion says to himself as he takes the quill and dives it in black ink: this is diplomatic effort, fit to his job as Hand of the King. He does _not_ , not even once, write _Dearest Sansa_ , before he tosses the parchment into the flames and starts a new one with the more adequate title of _To the Queen in the North, Sansa of House Stark,_ and his fingers do not tremble, and he does not imagine his former wife alone, surrounded by everlasting snow, and her little smile iluminated by candlelight, and he never thinks about finishing each letter with _Love, Tyrion_ before he decides for _Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King,_ and he never spends too much time imagining the things that could have been. Never; never.

  
  


* * *

  
  
The question is always there, in the back of his mind, but one afternoon – it is cold, the sky is bone-white, and it reminds him of the dust settling over the ruins of the Red Keep when fire was poured out from above. He spent the morning walking among the wreckage in the walls of the city, Bronn by his side. The smallfolk keeps coming in from all gates and roads: the Crown needs workers of all kinds – masons, blacksmiths, seamstresses. The brothels have been destroyed but the whores are already working. Queens and Kings come and go, and humanity will never change.

( _The woman who approaches him in Flea Bottom must be freezing. Her clothes are not appropriated for this weather, since winter still lingers in the northern winds, but it works just fine to catch any man’s attention. It certainly catches his. She has dark hair, like Tysha’s, but blue eyes like Sansa’s. Her bones stick out under her skin. Tyrion wonders when was her last meal. “You can find us a nice bed in this fancy Keep of yours, my lord Hand,” she says, voice musky, puts one hand on his shoulder. The Red Keep is a ruin just as any other building of King's Landing. There's nothing fancy about it, not anymore._

_But he considers it. He really does. For so many reasons: the Red Keep will need courtesans, if the lords of Westeros are coming to the court; he misses sex, terribly, he misses touching someone else’s body, he misses the warmth of it; he could use some relief from the stress; the girl is certainly in need of some coin and he wouldn’t be cruel to her; he needs a network of information that does not rely on Bran’s abilities, because he is the Hand of the King after all, and who better than prostitutes to start it?, and –_

_“I’m afraid I have no time,” he says, but places a silver coin in the palm of the whore’s hand, closes her fingers around it, “and besides, I’m married.”_

_“Your lady won’t ever know from me,” the woman tries one last time, maybe aiming at a golden coin, but she accepts the one he gave her all the same. You can’t eat silver, but he is sure she will find a use to it._

_Tyrion smiles, rueful and bitter. “Oh, no, my dear. She certainly won’t.”_ )

So he feels melancholic and powerless and lonely as hell. He drinks more than he should, that night, and it is hard to work because he’s dizzy and numb, when he dares to question Bran, who is again staring at the flames in the hearth of his royal chambers. “Did you find Drogon?”

He means: _did you find her body?_ , but he can’t bring himself to say it.

Your Majesty looks tired and it is unsettling. Only humans feel exhausted; the dead didn’t, and for a long time Bran didn’t either. In the last weeks he has been asking to go earlier to his chambers, though, and there’s this... _wariness_ in his face. Tyrion wonders if he is mimicking. “Do you really want to know, my lord?”

Tyrion won’t show this pain, not for anyone in the world except Jon Snow; certainly not for Bran “why-do-you-think-I-came-all-this-way” Stark. “If I’m asking then yes, I do.”

Bran seems unaffected by his lack of courtesy. “What difference does it make for you?”

“Well, I’m your Hand,” Tyrion says, voice harsh. “I’m supposed to know if we should prepare for another dragon breathing fire all over our heads in vengeance. You said your council didn’t need a Master of War any longer, but who knows?”

“And what would you do against a dragon that I could not handle by myself?” Bran _sighs._ Tyrion’s mouth almost falls agape in surprise. “What difference does it make _for you_?” He repeats, the two last words weighing more than they did in the first time, and just like that Tyrion knows that Bran knows what he really, really wants to know.

And that’s when Tyrion realizes that the boy is showing him mercy, undeserved mercy.

Even if his voice is still toneless, his eyes are sad. Even if his face barely changes, Tyrion knows a kindness when he sees it. And it is a thing only another human could ever understand.

“I guess you are right.” He reaches for his wine again. Finishes it in two gulps. “It doesn’t.”

  
  


* * *

  
  
“Will you read out loud for me?” Bran asks, one night.

Tyrion frowns. Bran is already on his royal bed and Tyrion is sitting in the chair at its side, which is placed there for him. He hasn’t realized the King was awake; sometimes, he falls asleep early in the night. Tyrion just retires to his chambers at the Tower of the Hand really, really late, for he doesn’t like to be alone more than necessary– Bran knows it, and doesn’t mind his company, since it makes little difference for him. He never before served someone who’d let him stay in the royal chambers before, not even Dany; but he also never before served someone who knew him so well as Bran does. Neither of them chose it, to know or be known, but still. “I didn’t notice you were awake, Your Grace.”

“I am sorry to bother your work,” Bran asks. He looks frail and delicate when he is not wearing a crown, almost sick. Tyrion wonders if he is eating enough.

“A King never bothers anyone,” he answers, the courtesies easy on his tongue. “And I wasn’t working. Just reading.”

“So?” He turns his head, slightly, to look at Tyrion. It is one of the few movements he has left. “Will you read for me?”

Tyrion has to laugh. The whole situation leaves him feeling almost hysterical. “Do _you_ want me to read you a story? Really?”

“I think you have a good voice for telling stories,” Bran explains, and Tyrion thinks he sounds amused. Perhaps even warm.

“Very well, then,” he agrees. The book in his hand is a collection of stories. “Which tales do you prefer?”

“The ones about monsters,” Bran says, closing his eyes.

“To sleep?” Tyrion curls one eyebrow, his voice both cautious and curious.

“At any time of the day,” Bran says, and Tyrion smiles, more to himself than to the boy. He likes stories about the monsters, too.

So Tyrion reads for his King. And if he tries hard enough, if he lets the words of the book roll off his tongue soft enough, and if he ignores the sight from the window when the wind blows the curtains, they could be just a normal family, a father reading a tale of monsters for his son until he falls asleep.

  
  


* * *

  
  
There’s no more Iron Throne, sword-forged, blood-bred; only a boy in his wheel-chair.

But they open the Throne Room to hear the petitions of the people, at the end of the first month. Bran’s coronation, after all, was not a public affair, as it should. The people of Westeros have yet to know the face of their new king, and they do so slowly. Each day they fill the Castle, bringing their requests. Nobles of a few great houses and, mostly, small ones – some of them willing to stay in the Keep, at court – and small-folks and workers and people asking for food or money or jobs or justice, for their share of land, for their old burned houses, for the bodies of their loved ones.

If anyone doubted Bran’s prerogative or capacity once Tyrion announces the King’s title – for his young age or his physical condition – it all vanishes when Bran Stark anticipates each request. He calls people by their names before they present themselves. He says, in a soothing voice, “I assume you are here to ask for the Crown’s intercession about your father’s inheritance? I am very sorry for your loss, by the way” or “My lady, I am afraid your annulment must wait until another High Septon is established,” or “Rise, my lord; the legitimization of your son shall be granted,” and soon the word spreads. The King must be a creature sent by the gods themselves. It could be dark magic, but Bran has been kind enough in his words and decisions so no one thinks he is the devil. So the poor and neglected and honest come to him, and the wicked and thieves and murderers fear him, and those who try to deceive him? The King’s eyes see it all, right through them, and they say of him he is both just and merciful, that he is wise beyond his years, that nothing can be kept hidden from his everlasting sight.

He does not motivate praise or effusive love. He is not, indeed, Daenerys Targaryen. Instead, it is a silent, tired kind of fear, of respect, maybe even admiration. Sometimes Bran asks for Tyrion and Podrick to lead him through the city’s streets, not in the safeness of a carriage, but on the back of a horse instead (the saddle Tyrion drew for him, a lifetime ago), and there are no songs about him in the people’s mouths; they look at his royal figure and clean the path before him, never daring to direct their words to Your Majesty outside the Throne Room. Even here, among ruins, he seems out of this world. Too high and unreachable. And still he is The Broken; just like their lands, their families, their bodies, their surviving, miserable lives. The people approve of him, if for no other reason, at least because he is the Realm’s other clean half; a mirror with the gift of unending knowledge to mend their shattered pieces. One day, one oblivious child, unaware of royal titles and the sacred, eternal vows they are entitled to, runs towards their party with a little kitten in her right hand. Her mother comes close behind, chasing her, but the woman doesn’t reach her daughter in time to stop her from raising the animal as high as she is able for them to see. “I named him Bran!” She declares.

And Bran Stark _smiles._ It is cryptic at its best but it is definitely a smile. Tyrion almost falls from his horse. “Oh. But that is lovely. Thank you, Rose. I appreciate it.”

The girls face lightens up in surprise, eyes widening and mouth opening, “how do you know my name?”

“The King knows everything,” says the mother, breathless as she arrives by their side, clutching the girl’s arm and pulling her back, bowing her head at the King's presence, “I am very sorry, Your Grace.”

Bran extends his small, gentle smile for her as well. “Do not worry, my lady.”

After this event, as if he has decided it is enough, he stops anticipating each request when they open the gates of the Throne Room. He lets people talk. And tell their own stories.

  
  


* * *

  
  
It is not a new world that they are constructing. They are just repairing the old one. Making amends. Fixing details.

A great part of it feels so much like it used to be, before, when his family was alive, that Tyrion sometimes can pretend nothing happened; sometimes he honestly forgets. And forgetting is a blessing these days. Days and nights stretch into weeks that stretch into months. Priests and saints preach on the streets. Dragonstone’s seat is empty and in need of a lord. They begin the rebuilding of the Great Sept of Baelor and start to study the list of eligible High Septons. The Small Council needs to meet each Warden, as they are accountable for each of the Six Kingdoms, and both Dorne and the Iron Islands have problems with the Crown. Bran comments, during a meeting, about the possible outcomes of an alliance between the North and the Vale, since Robin Arryn plans to ask for Sansa’s hand in marriage once more.

Tyrion’s hand close in a fist under the table, but his voice and face never change.

  
  


* * *

  
  
One night, they linger on the Great Hall together, after the last meal of the day.

Tyrion used to be so productive during the nights, but lately he is too old and tired by the end of the day to work until dawn, and too disturbed to have a peaceful sleep. So he hates it, when the sun settles and the shadows cover the city like a vice. He hates the fact he will be alone; hates how nothing makes the ache for Daenerys’ fate ease away; he feels guilty for her life, and then feels guilty for thinking about her less and less. He hates that Jaime is not here and will never be again. He hates that the only living person he’d like to be with does not care for him at all and is too busy ruling her own kingdom.

But that particular night, all of them, the Small Council and the King, decide to have dinner together, and they dwell in front of the fireplace when the food is over. They drink wine, and talk about work without actually talking about work, and Bronn sings a terrible song, and even Brienne laughs. Between all of them there are so many dead names that it is impossible not to stumble in at least one; Podrick ends up telling a story about one of his adventures with Brienne on the road, quite a innocent tale. But it is funny, because Podrick takes himself lightly. And then, Davos tell stories of his time as a smuggler, Samwell talks about Oldtown, and all the time, Bran smiles. Laughs, quietly, once or twice, and makes questions like everyone else, and Tyrion can’t take his eyes off of his King.

When it grows too late and everyone else leaves, Tyrion follows Podrick as they take Bran to his chambers. Podrick, gracefully, holds Bran in his arms and puts him on his bed, and then asks for permission to leave.

But the Hand stays. He’s grown fond of Bran, to be honest, of their quiet moments at night, and he is not ready to be alone again, not yet. Bran always leaves a flagon full of wine on his night-stand for Tyrion, anyway, and he takes his place in the chair at the side of the bed.

“Why do you care to listen to people?” He asks, after some seconds of a friendly silence. He has wanted to ask this in a while.

Bran looks at him with his piercing, Stark-eyes. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“All the stories we heard tonight,” Tyrion explains. “Of Brienne and Podrick on the road, of Davos and Stannis, of Sam in the Citadel. You’ve already seen it all, but you kept asking questions. You even laughed. Out of kindness?”

“I laughed because it was funny, my lord,” Bran retorts, and smirks with the corner of his mouth, mysteriously, as if Tyrion’s confusion amuses him. He has this half-smile, now. There’s a lot of Sansa in it. He wonders if it’s the kind of thing that comes in the blood or if Bran just learnt it.

“You know what I mean,” Tyrion says, pulling a face.

Bran Stark breathes in deep, his head resting on his pillow, and he looks every inch a boy when he finally says, “I like to imagine it from other people’s points of view.”

Tyrion nods, just once, even before he understands fully what Bran means.

Only after a very long minute he thinks– _a human’s point of view? Their emotions, their faults, their mistakes? Are you even capable of making a mistake, now?_ , but he dares not to ask it.

Instead, he declares, quietly, looking over Bran’s face through his eyelashes, head half-bent down, “I think you might as well be the wisest choice I’ve made in my life.”

Bran chuckles. “You always think that,” he says. “About your every choice.”

Tyrion laughs, coming closer to cover him with the blanket up until his chin. It is a cold night, and the air brings in an unpleasant chill. “A fair point, your Grace.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


“All right,” Tyrion finally asks, “but how do you _know_ you can’t have children?”

It’s the wine speaking. He is alone with Bran, for hours now, both of them before the hearth – not in neither of their chambers, but the big hearth in the Great Hall instead. The sun will probably rise anytime, now.

Bran snaps his eyes at him, and for a moment Tyrion fears he’s pushed too far. “I know,” he says, royally.

“How?” Tyrion insists, and – being the not-so-wise man he is, takes one more swallow of his wine.

“How do you know you _can_?” Bran asks, daring, annoyed, eyes rolling jovially.

Tyrion grins. “Fair enough. How does _Sansa_ know you can’t have children?”

At that, the King smiles. He seems like he enjoyed this particular joke alone for quite a while, and only now he is able to share it. “She doesn’t,” he says. “She just assumed.”

Tyrion lets out a laugh, drinks some more. Everyone assumes things about people like them. The silence fills the space between his seat and the King’s wheel-chair, comfortable and easy.

“There was a girl,” Bran says, after almost a whole minute. “A friend.”

The words are so absurd at first that it takes Tyrion’s half-drunk brain a while to connect them to their conversation. If Bran Stark had turned into a tree right in front of his eyes, Tyrion would not be more surprised. Maybe he is not better than Sansa, or any of the lords of Westeros.

“Yes?” He asks, then. Bran frowns, as if in pain, and gives a small nod, the best he is able to do. “And?”

“And I wanted her,” he says. And he sounds so very hurt and so, so old. “And I tried. That’s how I know.”

Tyrion looks at the flames, and then at his face, at the way his eyebrows curl, as if he would rather occupy himself with all the history of monarchs behind him than to revisit this particular memory. Tyrion knows he shouldn’t, but before he can stop himself– “What was her name?”

For some reason, and without trying, he probably asked the right thing. Bran’s voice is still sad, but his face eases, relaxes, “Meera,” he says. “Meera Reed. She saved my life. She sacrificed a lot for me. Multiple times.”

Tyrion feels like hugging him. Like patting his hair or his hand. Like saying that it is all right. That whatever it was, it was worth it, he was worth it. But all those things would be comforts to himself, more than to Bran; and so he just holds his tongue. It is the least he can do.

“I made some mistakes, I believe, on my way here,” Bran says, out of the sudden.

“I didn’t think you capable of mistakes,” Tyrion answers.

Bran smiles. Almost patronizing, condescending, as if he is saying _you fool, naive man._ “Why not?” He inquires. “Do you think knowledge makes a good person?”

“No,” Tyrion answers. And feels suddenly sad himself, though he can’t precise the reasons why. “You have a good heart.”

“I don’t have a heart,” Bran answers, in his usual flat voice. And yet Tyrion thinks he can listen to it better, now, to the way it flickers and waves, to the layers beneath his stoic tone. “That is why you chose me, in the first place. Nothing to tempt me. Nothing to seduce me.”

“I chose you because you don’t care for power, and not because you care for nothing,” Tyrion retaliates. “You are a Stark. You are _good._ I don’t believe _you_ believe a single word of what you just said to me.”

Bran looks at him with something that Tyrion can only name as hope. And maybe gratitude. Then it fades away, and he chortles. “It doesn’t come in the blood, my lord. You would be doomed, if it did.”

“Still,” Tyrion perseveres. “If you didn’t have a heart, you would not be sorry for your girl.”

“All of our mistakes were necessary to bring us here,” Bran points out. “I never said I was sorry.”

“But you obviously are,” Tyrion says, holding his head up high. He won’t back down on this. He knew great monarchs, delirious monarchs, the cruel and the bad, the good, and the people in the gray areas in between; and Bran Stark, for all his peculiarities, is not heartless. He refuses to believe it.

Bran studies his features for the longest time, and Tyrion believes the subject is closed. He has no idea of what the King sees in him, but the next thing he says is– “I need you to go North.”

He is taken aback by the sudden change of subject. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”

Bran’s eye move to the fire once more. “I’m sending you to the North. I’ve postponed it for much longer than I should, but now it is time.”

Tyrion tilts his head to the side, narrows his eyes to his King. It has been six months, two weeks, three days. His left hand trembles; he fists it away.

“And what needs to be handled with the Queen in the North that we cannot work through letters, as we’ve been doing all this time?”

“The taxes she’s settled on our use of White Harbor’s ports. Her prices on iron and wood. Her possible engagements, since your marriage is still valid here in the South and we will have a High Septon named soon.” Bran curls one eyebrow. “So many things are better handled in person. She won't come South, I've already asked, so someone must go. I can't think of anyone better than you.”

As far as they know, and they know a lot because of Bran, Sansa has been denying all proposals of marriage since her coronation, and they never stop arriving.

But Tyrion doesn’t like that tone in Bran’s voice.

“Oh, please. Don’t pretend you don’t want to see her again,” the King says, at last.

“Excuse me?” He replies, almost offended. He absolutely hates when Bran does it. Damn him; he can see the past, but he can’t read _minds_. Right? “What does it has to do with… _Anything?_ ”

With iron prices? With Bran’s heart and Meera’s fate and with anything?

“It doesn’t,” Bran answers, nonchalantly. “But I’m giving you an alibi. You should thank me. You leave in two days.”

“In _two days_?!” Tyrion protests, and then remembers to control his voice. It is easy to be himself with Bran. “Your Grace, that is _ridiculous._ You need me here. Yara Greyjoy is arriving in a _week_ and–”

“You are needed where I say you are needed, and when,” he says, with finality. A King’s command, one he cannot disobey. “Talk to the Small Council in the morrow, speak to them about the matters you must take to her. She already knows of your visit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And yes, I know what I should be writing and I am, okay?? I just needed to get this out because I couldn't SLEEP or STUDY it was fucking suffocating me since the end of season 8 and-


	2. We Were Trying, but We're Trying No More

  
  
  
  
  
The sky is still gray when Tyrion finds himself ready at one of King’s Landing’s ports, looking around and thinking, _gods, we do need to rebuild this, too_. He’s taking a small party of fifteen men or so with him to Winterfell – Bronn is staying; the King can’t be without them both at once – and they are readying their ship behind his back, carrying the trunks. It will be a long way until White Harbor, and then a even longer travel by land to Winterfell, almost a whole moon until they arrive.

Tyrion rubs his hands together. It’s always colder in the early hours of morning and late hours of night, and a chill runs in his bones, make the ache in his limbs worse. He shifts his support from one leg to another to cover it. “Your Grace,” he says, nodding slightly to Podrick, standing behind Bran’s chair. “I trust you’ll be better without me for the following months.”

Bran gives him one of his quizzical looks. “You know I won’t. Stay safe.”

Tyrion laughs, takes his hand. “And you stay safe as well,” he says. “Not that I can do anything about your safety when I’m around. I trust Bronn and Brienne are both more capable than I could ever be regarding this area.”

Bran looks at Tyrion’s palm on the back of his hand and twists one eyebrow. “Lord Tyrion,” he says, carefully, as if he is picking up words from a speech he suddenly gave up speaking, right in the last second. “I chose you as my Hand because– you were made for this job. You’re capable, and we need you.”

Tyrion thinks about saying something, making a joke to deflect, and then decides for waiting, for a change.

“Whatever you decide,” he says, and Tyrion feels a dread, a heavy weight on his belly, a feeling this is not about taxes and prices, “please know I trust your judgment.”

He comes a step closer to his wheel-chair, stares at Podrick behind Bran, impassible and quiet, and then at the King’s face once more. “Your Grace,” he says, “is there anything you’re not telling me?”

Bran finally looks him in the eye, with a condescending half-smile. “A lot, Tyrion. Always.”

“That’s unfair,” Tyrion crosses his arms, cocking his head. “You know everything I do. How can I do my job if you don’t tell me what I need to know?”

Bran presses his lips together. “All you need to know is that I trust you.”

“If you did, you would _tell_ me,” Tyrion mutters.

“I trust you as in _I have faith in you_ , and not as _I will always share everything with you._ ” He says it harshly, and yet Tyrion feels a uncomfortable lump in his throat, some emotion, something. “Remember this. You are a good man.”

Bran – oh, Bran. He’s like a god, Tyrion thinks, saying what he wants out loud so things can come to be out of nothing only at the power of his words, but Tyrion is not sure Bran could speak a good heart into existence like that. He swallows the lump down so his voice won’t be so thick. “Well, thank you, Your Grace. I’m not sure I deserve it.” He hesitates. “Are you sure you want me to go now? The Dornish Prince –”

“Let me worry about the Dornish Prince,” Bran says, soothingly, but there’s something about the way he phrases it – _too_ calm to be true. Before he can interject, the King proceeds. “You would do good in worrying about Lord Manderly. Send him my regards. It will be easier for you if you speak of me.”

Tyrion smirks. “Look at you! I'm proud of this reasoning.”

Bran almost rolls his eyes. “Now go. Send my love to Sansa.” When Tyrion is about to turn around so he could leave, the King’s voice stops him. “And Tyrion?”

Tyrion stops in his spot. “Yes?”

Bran’s gaze wander away to the horizon, the sparse clouds above it. “Your chambers in Winterfell will probably have a nice hearth and you shall be warm enough. Do not worry about the cold.”

How...? “With all due respect, Your Grace,” Tyrion sighs, “but you seriously need to stop doing this.”

“Watch your window,” he finishes. “The one staring at the East Gate. At the end of the day.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Tyrion doesn't like to travel in ships, and he is relieved when they get to White Harbor. Lord Manderly is not present to welcome them, which he secretly celebrates; he's told the man went North, to Winterfell, only a week prior, and they have no interest in staying more than one night. It is a longer way by land; when they reach Winter Town they've been travelling for a month and Tyrion cannot take any more second of it. He is exhausted, each of his muscles hurt in a different, particular way; he's rehearsed each conversation with every lord he'll find a thousand times in his head, perfected every line, every idea, drafted every plan.

And yet, when the black walls of Winterfell, covered in snow, loom in the dark horizon, barely distinguishable, his weariness fades away. He takes notes of new buildings, of a set of restored walls as they approach, their arrival being announced at the gates that promptly open for them, and memories of Daenerys' arrival just one year ago hit him like a blow, disorientating, buzzing in his ears. He climbs off their carriage like he's in a dream, looking around as they are guided to the Great Hall, head and heart numb as he takes in each reconstructed corner, little children running and hiding as their mothers scream for them to come back inside with buckets beneath her arms.

It is only when they are inside the Great Hall that Tyrion starts to feel something again.

It's different, this place — there's a throne, for starters, wolves carved out in wood making the back of the chair and its arms; there are banners of House Stark covering the stony walls on both sides, picturing battles being won, packs of wolves, heart-trees; there are knights protecting the dais in perfect line, all dressed in gray, with black cloaks hanging from their shoulders, and with swords at their hips. Gloomy figures, a screaming contrast with the white cloaks of the Kingsguard – they could be, Tyrion thinks, men of the Night's Watch, if not for the Stark Wolf in their chest.

But most of all, now, there's a Queen in that throne.

Tyrion is only partially aware of Sansa's name being announced by a man at her side, _Sansa, of House Stark, the Queen in the North and Lady of Winterfell_ and so on; he can't take his eyes off of _her_ , of the crown of iron embracing her forehead with a silver brightness, the blue dress that flows from her body like a river and makes the blue in her eyes scream even louder. Her hair is combed in a single braid, a way he's often seen in the head of Northerner women. He bows down as someone starts to announce him as well, _may I present Lord Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King in the South-_

“Oh, but I know who he is,” she dismisses with a wave of her hand, and her voice pierces through him across the Hall. It's a light tone, he thinks, one that does not match their surroundings. He is not one to tremble before kings or queens, except maybe Daenerys at the end, but he swallows dry as he stares at this one and thinks, _I married you, once. I can't believe I married you._ It feels bitter under his tongue. “Rise, Lord Tyrion.”

He lifts his head. “Your Grace,” he says, voice as loud and clear as he can make it.

The Queen in the North offers him a polite, crafted smile. “Welcome back to Winterfell, my lord.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


There's a window looking at the East Gate in his chambers, as Bran told him it would. The men he brought with him follow a maid, but he was instructed to go with another, and before she leaves him alone she says the Queen will be waiting for him in her solar, as soon as he can meet her.

Tyrion does not hurry.

There’s a bath ready for him when he comes in, the water steaming hot. Heated towels by the side of the tub. Hard soaps, too, he couldn’t help but notice: a luxury article that not even King’s Landing had in the times of Robert and Joffrey and his sister, though they always had it in Casterly Rock when he was a child. The last time he’d been in Winterfell they used foaming soap and lather, just like most of the Kingdoms. As he scrubs himself clean he wonders if the North produced it locally, or if they traded it with other Kingdoms. Probably the former. The North is thriving under Sansa's rule, growing like a heart-tree among snow and winter.

When he closes his eyes, he can still hear the children yelling from afar in the courtyard. It's a sound that gets confused with other memories, of desperate screams as they run among the tombs in the crypts below. He only leaves the tub when the water is cold.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Sansa’s solar at night is a sober, simple place, like most of Winterfell. There’s a closed door that he imagines that leads to her private chambers, and he does not dwell thought on it, actually forces himself to not even stare at that door for too long. A banner covers one of the walls, the head of a crowned wolf in white thread against a light gray background. There’s a desk at the corner, next to the window, with parchments, feather and ink, letters, books, and one single red rose; but Sansa waits for him before the fireplace. There’s a beautiful carpet, surprisingly, not in gray and white; it’s in blue and red instead – in the precise tones of House Tully, actually: dark and somber colors but still, the only thing in the room that held any color at all — beside Sansa herself.

The Queen sits in one of the two armchairs before the hearth, separated by a console, where tea seem to be brewing. She wears her crown, and her braid seem to catch the bright light of the fire, like scales of a snake, or a dragon. Something dangerous and lethal. Her gloves rest at her lap, her legs are crossed; she’s regal in that chair, as if it were her throne. Her blue eyes remind him of those creatures they fought together in the crypts. She’s pale, her cheekbones more evident – she’s thinner, he thinks, now he can look closer, and looks tired, older, but maybe it’s just the hour, the way her long eyelashes cast shadows over her cheeks, or the fire flickers somberly on her face.

He forgot to knock, since the door to her solar was open, and so he cleans his throat to make his presence known. “Your Grace,” he says, hands tied together on his back. “You sent to me?”

She turns her head towards him with a subtle jolt. “Lord Tyrion,” she says, politely, but not warm. “Join me.” He approaches her, choosing to sit in the chair across hers. She barely moves, barely breathes, like a statue of some goddess carved out of pure marble, and his clumsy gait makes him feel self-conscious. Doesn’t she get tired of being always so _perfect_? “I know the hour grows late,” she says, as soon as he’s settled; distracted by the thrum of his heart, he understands too late she is apologizing.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he dismisses, immediately. “I can’t sleep early these days, anyhow.”

Sansa nods. “How do you find your accommodations?”

“Perfect,” he answers. “Thank you for your hospitality.” He looks at the fire. It _is_ actually warm inside the castle, he notices, and suddenly remembers his King. “Bran told me about it.”

She finally looks at him – _really_ seeing and listening to him, for the first time, he thinks, and not just saying her lines. Her head slightly tilts to the side, but even that seems gracious. “He told you about your accommodations?”

Tyrion smirks. “Yes. He does that, sometimes.”

The Queen frowns, but her mouth twists as if she’s trying to hide a smile. For some unfathomable reason, it makes him want to reach out and hold her hand, but his arms are not long enough. “Well,” she says, “I don’t know if I should be worried. Are you trying to tell me he is watching me?” She narrows her blue eyes.

And he laughs. “No.” And, after a little pause, “I mean, he _is_ watching you, I suppose. And me, and all of us, but that was not a threat, nor a warning.” He rubs the inside of his wrist only to occupy his hands with something. “I came in peace.”

Something in her eases, breathes out. He doesn’t know what, but he sees it leaving them, like a load being lifted away. “How is he?” She asks, quietly: only Sansa, only for a second not the Queen in the North.

He allows himself to answer her as Tyrion, not the Hand of the King, and kindness polishes the corners of his words. “He is well. Healthy, I’d say. Sometimes he says things no one else understands and we all just nod and agree,” Tyrion shrugs, and listens her chuckling. He adores that little sound – way more than he should.

“Good,” she murmurs. “Good.”

And then Sansa looks at him – with intention. She leans her cheek against the back of her chair, as if she’s making a pillow of it, and he does the same, and her gaze does not drift away from his. Her crown looks brighter like this; the fire makes it look like copper, like her hair, instead of iron. All those months trying to forget that she existed, somewhere... Now he’s been in her presence for less than an hour, and just like that –

Several seconds pass in silence but for the wood crackling, until he says – low, so not to disturb the peace of the moment too much, “I always thought you’d make a good Queen, you know.”

She smiles one of those small, wry smiles. “You should have thought about it sooner.”

He scoffs warily, eyes on his own palms as if he could read the time in the lines scratched there, past and future. It actually turns him on a little when she’s sharp like that, even when it cuts him. Specially when it cuts him. “It doesn’t matter now,” he says, and it sounds soft, softer than planned, and tired, too. “You’re Queen in the North, your people adore you, your kingdom is flourishing. You are home. And safe.” He gathers courage to raise his eyes to her again, only to find her quietly staring at the flames; her shoulders drop another inch, and she intertwines her fingers into each other as she always did in King’s Landing when she was nervous.

“I think I was forged for the hard times,” she says, eyes far away, seeing into the fire like those red priestesses who could bring back the dead. “For War and treachery and Winter.” She looks down at her hands. “I don’t know how to be at ease.”

“That sounds like a good problem to me,” Tyrion whispers, and she chuckles.

“You’re right. I’ve had worst.”

The truth of her words stings in him like a knife, and he shifts in his chair, suddenly reminding that he was sent on a mission. One hour into it and he’s already distracted by Sansa. He knew it would happen. Damn, Bran probably knew it would happen. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you are a friend,” Sansa answers, after a worn-out sigh. “It’s in short supply, these days.”

He won't be distracted by his own heartbeat twice in the same conversation. This is ridiculous. “Did you send to me because you needed a friend?”

She blinks, as if awakening, making Tyrion regret his words immediately. “Oh, this. No.” She straightens her spine and in a second, the Queen comes back, covering her skin, hiding her eyes away, lifting her walls again. Her voice comes back to her usual hard tone. “I just brought you here so we could agree about your schedule tomorrow. I imagine you must be tired. You can rest in the morning, if you’d like – I can have some food delivered at your chambers, but we usually break fast together at the Great Hall and you are more than welcome to join our table.”

“I’ll be glad to join you all.” He will probably be tired as hell, but he needs to be there as much as he can – to watch and take notes. “Your brother told me he sent word of my visit… He must have explained our reasons?”

“He did.” She gives him a knowing smile. It reminds him, with a shiver, of Cersei. “You’re here to convince me to sell wood and iron for King’s Landing's reconstruction at a more convenient price. And to lower taxes on your use of White Harbor.”

For some reason, he feels like losing, which is a horrible disposition to start any negotiation whatsoever. “I’d like to visit Lord Glover tomorrow, in Deepwood Motte, if you’ll allow me,” he tries, careful, too careful.

“I won’t.” She reaches for the teapot and fills her cup. “You can negotiate taxes with Lord Manderly as much as you want, but Deepwood Motte and the Wolfswood passes through me. Tea?”

“No, thank you; don’t you trust your servants and vassals and lords, Your Grace?” He says with a sly half-smirk. “A kingdom built upon mistrust would hardly prosper.”

He watches the way she clutches her hand about her delicate cup of tea – it is a fine thing, matching the teapot, the plates, the spoons. A white porcelain decorated with deep blue winter flowers: not northerner, he’s almost sure. Which realm delivered it so far away? A part of his brain is trying to trace the web of connections the Queen in the North could be crafting, perhaps against Bran. The other half is distracted by her knuckles, tight and white as they tighten around the cup, wherever it came from. He’s looking for signs in her, anything, that is not rehearsed, that escapes from her in a moment of distraction. “Please, Lord Tyrion,” she says, mischievously. “All kingdoms are built upon mistrust.” He chuckles, dryly; he has to. This woman brought a Dragon Queen down only with her words. He had seen her playing Joffrey. She killed Petyr Baelish. He doesn't know why he's still surprised. “You and I will negotiate the Wolfswood and I will be the one to pass our agreement on to Lord Glover. Tomorrow, after the midday meal? I usually hear petitions in the mornings.”

It's not like he's given a choice, so, “all right,” he murmurs, still amused. 

“Lord Manderly is at court for a fortnight,” she offers. “You can talk to him directly, but I ask to be informed of the terms of your agreement, once it’s settled.”

“Fair enough,” he agrees. “I count myself lucky for your time to mediate such delicate matters of the Crown. Lord Manderly will be easy to find, I’m sure. He is such a distinct, peculiar presence. But I just realized I can’t quite remember Lord Glover’s face.” He studies her face meticulously as he speaks. No one can keep that mask without a crack for so long. “He wasn’t here when you needed him the most.”

It works. Her smile is prudent, and she takes her time picking up her words. “I’m trying to build bridges.”

“And fix Jon's mistakes, I assume?”

“Well. Yes.” She inhales deeply. “I hope you won’t take it personally, but you’re not allowed to get anywhere near Deepwood Motte.”

He laughs, pleased. “Am I bringing you trouble?”

She doesn't look at him as she puts her cup back on the console. “Perhaps.”

He smirks once more, following the movements of her delicate hands. She has pretty hands, always had. “Oh, but I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

“You are not sorry at all,” she scolds, and Tyrion laughs; he really isn't, and he never thought he'd trick her. “And, by the way, it came from the Vale.”

“Pardon?” He frowns, confused.

“The porcelain.” She spares a quick glance at the cup of tea, now half-empty. “We can make earthenware and stoneware here in the North, but not this kind of porcelain. This one is a gift from Lord Robyn. Did you get it right?”

Tyrion opens his mouth, closes it, before he can finally speak. Lord Robyn, he remembers, the one trying to marry her. “I got quite close,” he confesses. Gods, but it _does_ turn him on when she does that. “A man with fine tastes, your cousin.”

“He actually is,” she nods with a grin. Her eyes gleam in a way that blinds him. She didn't have to be both beautiful and clever, did she. “I’m glad to see you again, Lord Tyrion. Troubles and all.”

He thinks she's almost cruel for saying that. _She's playing you, like she did on those ramparts,_ something jagged and old, that sounds like Shae, whispers in his left ear. But Sansa is before him, and her eyes are not so dead, not so hard as two seconds ago. And he allows himself the right of this fleeting bliss, even if it's a lie.

“I'm glad to see you, too.” _This is tiring_ , Tyrion thinks. It feels like he has been loving her for ages, now. He thinks about his affection for her like a cloud, changing its form, sometimes raining on her, sometimes storming; sometimes sparse, barely able to cast a useful shadow to protect her from burning under the sun, but never disappearing. Never a clear sky. “You know I am.”

For a second, he thinks she blushes, but it's probably just the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes:  
> \- Be warned, there's a _Bittersweet ending_ on the tags now (bittersweet! not bitter like in the show! Promise)  
> \- The show tried to give us a plotty Bran, so my Bran is plotting, I guess? \o  
> \- I know where and how this fanfic will end, but I've been trying to figure out how to get there. I had planned three chapters, and then made it four, and then the plot and the angst just kept forcing me to be written about. so I've decided I'll be giving you smaller chapters as we go, because I don't want to spend another four months without an update again. I guess we're back to business?  
> \- If you would be so kind as to go and listen to Paint by The Paper Kites, the song in the title of all the chapters, this whole endeavor of mine would make a lot more sense to you.  
> \- also please warn me of typos! I should be sleeping.


End file.
